


burn brightly as a funeral pyre

by sundayrice



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, High Fantasy, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, also i stole some elements from the game pyre, so i took all the races and classes from dnd 5e, this was originally a dnd based au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-07-28 02:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundayrice/pseuds/sundayrice
Summary: In the deep underbelly of the Kingdom of Lucis, somewhere in between the Material and Ethereal Planes, a no-name criminal finds himself traveling alongside a group of Lucian exiles. And they've got a bigger bounty on their head than he ever realized.Looking closely, Prompto recognizes the intricacies of the man's armor, specifically the archaic pattern carved into the breastplate. Prompto knows it damn well; it represents the angels that smite the daemons from heavens high. The mark of the Crownsguard, as Prompto recalls it.Though to him, it appears more like an angel of death.





	1. somewhere off the edge of eos

**Author's Note:**

> **content warning(s): violence, blood, injury**
> 
> i've been listening to so many dnd podcasts lately so of course i had to make something vaguely high fantasy inspired for my fav ffxv boys. i have a vague idea where this will go, but for now, enjoy whatever the heck this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter specific content warning(s): references to alcohol consumption**

#  **_i._ **

Prompto had been left on the side of a ditch to rot, with nothing but cheap whiskey and blood mixing on his shirt.

Encompassed by looming shadow overhead, his vision can't process much at first. Only a bright purple light that drifts into the corner of his vision. The memories themselves are warped, to the point where Prompto can't remember whether he's stuck before or after the fight. And then, as he starts to regain both his mind and his body, Prompto's blood runs cold.

He expects to see the bright Lestallum sky above him, only to be met with a bleak expanse of white. No longer does he find himself laying on alleyway but instead in the back of a caravan. Cart, horse-drawn carriage, he can’t tell the specifics of it all but the sound of wheels banging on rocks and trotting horses are loud enough to fill his ringing ears. He hesitates to even move.

The bright purple glow, it was coming from his ankles. Arcane manacles. He's chained by the ankles with no chance to run. Kindly, The Crownsguard have spared his life but he's under arrest, Prompto realizes.

This certainly wasn’t the first scrap he’s been it, and he doesn’t expect it to be his last. It wasn’t his worst scrap though—and that’s the part that bothers him. He had stumbled into a cheap and obscure tavern on the far side of Lestallum. _The Eagle's Nest_ read a sign crudely painted hanging from the roof of the establishment. It seemed to have been weathered from a howling storm that same night.

Prompto wasn’t looking for a fight, only a drink. Despite everything about him, Prompto doesn’t try to draw attention to himself. He only floats around, head low among the Lucian crowds and his horns hidden in the hood of his cloak. Prompto can’t even remember how it started, he was already too drunk for that. But he remembers who did it. He also remembers that it ended with a broken nose and a knife almost caught in between the slits of his ribs.

Despite the bumps along the road, the padded hay beneath him is quite comfortable. Prompto’s tempted to simply sink back into his sleep, though the growing pain in his body urges him otherwise.

The back of this cart isn't exactly typical for political affairs, not nearly formal enough for the Crownsguard’s travels. It's more like one belonging to a traveling merchant. He spots a few scrolls, parchment maps, letters of royal address and sealing wax. Various keepsakes are scattered about, along with a few spell books, sheathed swords, and wares from an apothecary.

He’s not alone either. A sullen-looking half-orc man sits beside Prompto, quietly ruminating and swirling a flask in one hand. He carries a fanciful spear at his side that looks like it could slice through Prompto with one strike. His face is sharp, concentrated, and yet his eyes look sunken in, perhaps from a lack of sleep. A thin veil of weariness drapes over him, unseen though present in the room.

Looking closely, Prompto recognizes the intricacies of the man's armor, specifically the archaic pattern carved into the breastplate. Prompto knows it damn well; it represents the angels that smite the daemons from heavens high. The mark of the Crownsguard, as Prompto recalls it.

Though to him, it appears more like an angel of death.

Prompto, for his part, is pretty weary. A faint dizziness lingers in his head and his limbs are still too heavy to move, even without the arcane manacles holding him down. As he tries to lift himself off his back, he groans and a few sparks of arcane energy burst from the open wounds in his stomach.

The stranger’s face perks up with attention, although Prompto can't be sure if this is a good thing.

Before the man can even speak, Prompto reaches for two daggers in his hip holster and hurls one towards to man. Quicker than a blink, it's something that he's been trained for. No intention for harm, of course, as it only lands in the wood of the cart but a few inches away from the man's head.

It’s a warning instead.

The man simply smirks and holds up both hands. It’s subtle, although something about his face is rather devilish. This man's face is not the face of any pious Crownsguard. It's the face of a man on the run.

Solemnly, Prompto lowers his second dagger. His crossbow is nowhere to be found, though he's confident he's doesn't need it. A few odd scraps and he knows how the Crownsguard fight. And just as intimately does he know when to fold his cards and give in.

“You're not taking me back to Insomnia, are you?”

“We're far, far away from Insomnia,” the man says and takes a swig from a silver flask. “See outside for yourself.”

Prompto’s stomach is still filled with a dull ache but he just barely manages to roll onto his other side and lift the tarp of the cart to glimpse outside. A vast nothingness of crimson red sand surrounds him, aside from brief patches of greenery blotted around the desert. Emerging from the dust and sand appears almost like the remnant skeletons of otherworldly daemons, with their brittle bones bleached whiter than the North Gralean Mountains.

And in the distance, a bright flame flickers. It gives off a slightly greenish glow. In the nighttime, it’s glow is only made stronger.

“This sure as hell ain't Lestallum,” Prompto says.

The man extends his hand and a flash of yellow light slips off his fingertips like a group of dancing faeries. Prompto can barely process the bolt of energy before it stabs in between his ribcage and encompassing his wounds. He coughs again, a bit of blood spilling on the hay padding, and a lump of thick blood gathers in his throat. The bright light spreads all across Prompto’s stomach and rib cage, filling his body until the catharsis is all he feels. And soon, the bloody wound in his stomach closes over with a dry scab.

“Take care not to split open your wounds,” is all he says, matter-of-factly.

As Prompto lowers the tarp and readjusts himself to a sitting position, he nods, with a bit of a smile. To be honest, Prompto isn't sure if he should say his thanks now or wait until he's behind the bars again.

The man offers his flask to him. “It's only water, unfortunately,” he says. “But I think it would do you well.”

Prompto doesn't protest. But even as he takes a sip, he can't help but have his eyes trained on the half-orc man.

The travel carries on uneventfully for at least a few hours. Prompto tries his best to make idle talk with the man, although he can’t get rid of the initial awkwardness that hangs heavy in the air.

 _“Ignis Scientia,”_ the man had introduced himself as. The talented young paladin of the Crownsguard of an oath sworn in more than blood. And as one of the Crownsguard, the divine warriors of Bahamut’s legacy, Prompto was no doubt his enemy.

For the duration of the cart ride, Ignis is caught up trying to question Prompto, though Prompto himself is more interested in questioning Ignis. Ignis is an interesting one, always finding ways to shift the conversation into what he wants. Understandably, Ignis stays secretive about himself, though Prompto wonders what he can gain from shifty looks alone.

“The interior walls were all I had known,” Ignis starts. "I’ve been living in Insomnia for as long as I can remember."

“Funnily enough, so have I.”

To that remark, Ignis's brow raises in high interest and confusion. It’s something Prompto has gotten used to at this point. His Infernal blood remains an unusual sight in Insomnia’s interior walls.

Before he can elaborate, the sound of Ignis's spear hitting a collection of wooden crates cuts through the air. Prompto's whole body crashes into one of the various wooden crates and a heap of arcane trinkets spills out onto the hay padding.

“Is he awake now, Ig?” a deep voice pipes up from the front of the cart.

“Very much so,” Ignis replies, a bit flustered as he's lumped against a stack of potion bottles, now toppled over in disarray.

The cart comes to a halt. As Prompto steps out of the cart, he sees a towering firbolg meet his gaze. He has the typical fuzzy face. This time, though, it's pulled into a stern and serious expression and lined with scars. His hair is long but shorter at the sides, unkempt perhaps from more than a few sleepless nights. He’s no Crownsguard, or, at least his beat-up leathers and tattered shoulder pieces look nothing of Ignis’s regal wear.

Much smaller than the firbolg is a human, or human-like, figure that steps off the helm of the cart. Almost human, though the traces of ethereal blue in his hair and on his skin hint at something more. His eyes glow blue as well, almost brighter than the stars above them. He too wears rather worn clothes; a black leather coat with white fur linings and a beige scarf.

Unsurprising to him, the two new figures eye Prompto curiously, with the smaller one's eyes completely focused Prompto's horns.

“Hope you had a good rest, daemon boy,” the firbolg man says as he walks past Prompto, placing on firm hand on his shoulder and smirking.

He’s quick to try and swipe the hand away, though the firbolg man reacts before Prompto can hit him.

“Hold on,” Prompto says. “Where the hell are we headed?”

“To the Liberation Pyre,” Ignis says, pointing at the flame in the distance. “Where we’ll change our fate.”


	2. road to keycatrich

#  **_.ii_ **

To Prompto’s relief, he isn’t the only one who's been cast out from Insomnia. Instead of being carried to his arrest, this strange retinue he’s come across is carrying him away from his arrest.

But to Prompto's surprise, he's much farther from Lestallum, or Insomnia for that matter, than he would've originally thought. 

_ “Is this the Feywild then?” _

_ “Not quite.” _

_ “The Shadowfell?” _

_ “Well, it's similar, at the very least.” _

_ “But it's not Lucis either.” _

_ “Exactly.” _

A plane between planes, a land between the real and the imaginary. As Insomnia and the rest of Lucis were overwhelmed by the Starscourge, they've all been cast away from their home and deep into the depths of a daemonic infestation.

The cart comes to a stop again next to a shattered piece of rock. The firbolg man leans down and peaks down under the tarp, gesturing for Prompto and Ignis to take the helm. His head still brushes against the top of the tarp, even as he's crouched down, and his face takes on a softer quality than when Prompto first saw him.

_ “Gladiolus Amicitia. It's a pleasure.” _

Gladiolus was a rather straightforward one. Prompto recognizes the name easy enough. He was another man whose family had been sworn to the crown, even if his shabby leather garments didn't reveal as much. Prompto sees another, larger Crownsguard breastplate, lazily discarded alongside the rest of the trio’s wares.

The other, shorter man was following closely behind Gladio and crawled into the back of the cart quietly. 

He was a mysterious one. That, or he just wasn't the most eager talker. He always seemed quiet, though not because he was meek, but for another reason. Likewise, if he wasn’t planning on revealing his identity, Gladiolus and Ignis ended up doing it for him.

_ “You might recognize this one's face,”  _ Gladio said, pointing a thumb at the shorter man. _ “Ever heard of Prince Noctis?” _

After the fall of Insomnia, no one quite knew what happened to Prince Noctis. According to Ignis, they had fled by way of His Majesty and the Kingsglaive, who were protecting Insomnia as it was overtaken. Understandably, Noctis’s face is tense, nervous, worried. He looks both eager to run as far away from home as possible and eager to rush back to the edge of Insomnia.

But—not just for Noctis, for all of them—home might be little more than a speck of dust in the desert.

At the helm of the cart, Prompto gets a much clearer view of the scenery. He likes the feeling of the rough breeze in his hair. It feels refreshing, in an odd kind of way. 

The land around him, though vaguely reminiscent of Leide, is painted over with a shade of crimson like his own blood and the presence of something inhumane that he can't see or hear but feels deep inside his gut.

His skin starts to feel cold as he catches the drifting of whispers in the Infernal tongue from the daemons. It sounds like a deep, guttural roar that rings inside his eardrums, like echoes off a cavern’s walls. The daemons walk without earthly shape but not without a looming presence that makes Prompto’s hair stand on edge and his spine fill with shivers.

Just as Ignis seems to sense Prompto’s uneasiness, he puts on hand on his shoulder.

“The Liberation Pyre is close,” Ignis says. “Its light wards off the daemons.”

_ The Liberation Pyre _ , the name given to the eerie green sparkle Prompto had seen in the distance prior. Distorted by the heat rays of what was now a bright, burning morning, the light still shined with the same intensity as before. A flame never extinguished.

“How far to the Pyre then?” Prompto says.

Ignis points ahead. “Not too far if we keep on track.”

Prompto sees the ruined outline of Keycatrich, though he can't tell how far it is. Like an oasis in the desert, it almost seems to move farther and farther away the closer they get.

He'll just have to take Ignis's word for it. But, by the gods, it feels like they've been on the road for ages.

Ignis too is starting to look a little weary, though not without that serious furrowed brow of his. He's determined, for whatever reason. Prompto notices the emblem of Bahamut around Ignis’s neck as Ignis takes it and clutches it tightly. It’s a gold pendant in the shape of a small sword. Ignis whispers something under his breath, perhaps a prayer or another cantrip of his. In response, the pendant glows a faint yellow aura.

Prompto realizes he still hasn't asked why they're headed to the Pyre. Or what it does. It wards off the daemons, he knows that for sure.

Really, all Prompto wants to do is doze off. His wounds, though mostly healed, have that nagging, dull ache that Prompto can't get rid of. The road ahead keeps getting longer as it seems. One more days travel. One more week even.

And maybe, if he sleeps even for a little bit, he’ll be able to make more sense of his situation. Just barely, he adjusts himself. Without even thinking for a moment, Prompto he starts to rest his head on Ignis's shoulder and closes his eyes.

He feels a hand shaking him. 

“Prompto.”

“What?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear wh—”

Like the tiniest of rocks falling down the side of the mountain, he hears it. He hears  _ something  _ though he's not entirely sure what to make of it.

He's about to speak again before Ignis quickly shushes him. The vibrations are getting louder. They come from every direction above, below and around them. It gets louder and louder, even worse than the guttural roars of the other daemon. And soon, it's all Prompto and Ignis can hear around them.

“Careful!”

Prompto reaches for Ignis's hand just as a giant blur of a body emerges from the sand, almost directly under the cart. The cart is tipped to the left and, in one swift motion, Ignis and Prompto leap from the helm as it starts to fall over. As his spear tumbles to the side, Ignis draws two daggers from sheaths at his side. Both are silver and gold, matching the same intricacies as his Crownsguard armor and the winged symbols of Bahamut.

Prompto skids a bit in the sand, landing with one hand on the ground.

He looks up. “Well  _ shit,”  _ Prompto whispers under his breath.

Covered in the Leiden sand, redder than freshly spilled blood, is a fiend. Serpentine in looks, no limbs and with a head nearly indistinguishable from the rest of it's slithering body. It doesn't hiss like a snake, only sliding about silently as its grotesque mouth opens up and lunges at Prompto and Ignis.

Prompto draws his crossbow. One bolt from the quiver. Lock, click, hand on the trigger.

Prompto shoots. Lock, click, loaded. He shoots again.

Both bolts land in the junction between the creatures neck and whatever semblance of a head and face it has. This blood that drips out isn't red; instead, it looks like a deep navy blue. Prompto wonders if it's even blood at all.

Ignis smirks and hurls one dagger into the incision, ripping it open even more. The creature makes horrid cry, something that sounds like the distorted screech of a hawk.

He hurls the second dagger. Same cut, even deeper, until more blood starts to pour from the creatures neck. The blood drops to the ground, burning and sizzling in the hot sand.

Prompto and Ignis look back to see Noctis and Gladio, both exiting the cart in a daze. Gladiolus has a greatsword in hand, almost as big as Gladio himself. Noctis, on the other hand, doesn't appear to be armed, except for a small tome tucked under his arm. 

Noctis opens the book while muttering an incantation and a bright flame forms between the pages of the tome and flies towards the creature. Starting from it's tail, a trail of fire creeps up it slowly, threatening to eat it alive.

Lock, click, shoot. Prompto's eyes start to train on Noctis’s spells but his hands go through the motions like it's second nature. He's done it before, done it a thousand times even. But there's something unnatural to it that wasn’t there before.

He keeps aiming for the same spot and watches diligently as more of the thick, blue blood spills from out of the fiend and mixing with the sand.

And, with one last slice, Gladio lunges forward and swings wide, aimed directly at the creature’s head. The mass of his greatsword cleaves straight through the creature, causing its head to fall limp on the sand while the rest of the flames eat its remnants up into a dirty ash.

“You stole my kill,” Noctis says, pouting at Gladio.

Gladio was up to Noctis and playfully slaps him on the back “If you wanted it, you shouldn't have been so slow,” he says.

While Gladio and Noctis continue to playfully bicker, Ignis rushes toward to cart to check for any damage and Prompto follows behind quickly. The cart stays tipped over at its side, the tarp covering the back wagon now completely covered in sand and grime. The crates have also spilled out the back, falling into disorderly piles of old wood and hempen rope.

"Everything still in one piece?" Prompto says.

"Not entirely no," Ignis says.

Ignis digs through a few crates, now filled with broken wares and mangled trinkets or pieces of jewelry. Another crate, once filled with a fresh stock of fruit and dried meats, has toppled over and filled with sand.

Prompto leans down to straighten out the crate, accidentally brushing Ignis's hand as he does so. He tries to whisper out a "sorry" but the words don't come out right. Instead, he just sounds like a squeaking mouse. Ignis is looking a bit flustered too, though quickly shakes his head and clears his throat.

"We still have a long ways left to travel until we can rest proper," Ignis says. "So let's make quick work of this and get back on our way."

With that, Prompto nods and they clean up the shattered pieces once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, the first encounter. much like dnd things start out a little slow. but hopefully the challenges will get more exciting once our boys get further along the open road!


	3. safe haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter specific content warning(s): allusions to self-immolation**
> 
> no knowledge of the game pyre is required to understand this fic. but it's just a nice bonus because then you'll know exactly what specific concepts i'm ripping off from that game.

#  **_.iii_ **

Just at the edge of Keycatrich’s ruined exterior, the Pyre burns. The wheels of the cart halt just before the coals of the Pyre, kicking a bit of soot and dirt into the air. Carefully, Ignis steps off from the helm of the cart.

The retinue had originally brought two horses with them. Whether it’s leftover shock from the aftermath of the fiend attack or a simple daunting aura that exudes from the Pyre, the horses keep their distance.

Noctis approaches the Pyre first, with his two retainers following closely behind. Ignis beckons Prompto forward, though he finds himself unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling inside of him as he stares directly into the Pyre’s light.

It’s much taller than he originally imagined. And no doubt could it’s flame consume him whole if it wanted to. Prompto wonders if it’s the fire of all nine circles of hell burning right in front of him. It certainly feels like it.

He looks back to see one hand outstretched. Ignis’s. At that moment, Prompto can only see the two of them and the roaring flame, seemingly bigger and hotter than it had been but moments ago.

Ignis doesn't waver, not even looking down, and steps into the Pyre. And mere moments before he can be engulfed completely by the flame, Prompto grasps onto Ignis’s hand, locked tight in a death grip. The second Prompto’s hand touches Ignis’s, he feels the searing flame enter and devour his entire body. He sees a vision of his own hand being turned to ash as he lays motionless, unable to stop it.

Prompto's head falls back while the fire travels up his body like a lit fuse. His skin cracks and crumbles away and, as the heat fills his eyes, Prompto screams with all the air left in his lungs.

He blinks. He’s back where he was standing. Unharmed, no burn marks on his skin.

Quickly, he checks his pockets and his pouches too. Nothing missing, nothing changed. The only thing that sits oddly with him is the burning sensation from deep inside his ribcage that wasn’t there before.

The Pyre seemingly sputters as spark fly out in all directions before the flame ignites in a wide circle around all four of them. From the circle of flames, a magical aura surrounds and envelopes all of them. That deep-seated feeling of warmth in Prompto’s chest, he feels it more strongly now. It isn’t painful. It’s pleasurable more than anything. Soothing. Calming.

As the dusk from another day settles in, the daemons begin to settle in too. It’s inexplicable where they really come from. The closest anyone knows is that they manifest at night and emerge in twisted shapes from ooze that slips through the cracks in the ground. Growing up, he was told that creatures like that only exist in the Ethereal Plane, unable to touch like likes of mortals.

But luckily for them, the light of the Pyre wards them away, just as Ignis said. The closer they get to the light, the more they shriek and contort in pain. And, if they get too close, they shrivel up again into the ooze that they came from.

Part of him wonders why the light of the Pyre leaves him unharmed.

Prompto notices Ignis, Gladio and Noctis beginning to withdraw some steel equipment and preserved goods from one of the crates. They too are completely unharmed by the flames. The entire existence of the Pyre is nothing more than a routine to them, based on their reactions. And he doesn’t doubt that they’ve seen various Pyres once or twice before.

Soon after, Prompto is also rushing over to help empty the cart. Luckily, the food cargo remains mostly unharmed, just with bits of dirt and small scratches. The food cargo stock consists mostly of canned goods, preserved and pickled vegetables in clear jars. He also finds a cloth that covers slabs of salted and dried meats. In another cloth, he finds flat, hard bread that smells of cornmeal.

Noctis smooths out a rough patch and sits down with his spellbook in one hand and a helping of the dried meat in the other.

Briefly, he turns his attention over to Prompto. “What?” Noctis asks with his mouth slightly stuffed. “Not gonna eat?”

Prompto simply snickers and picks up a slice of the salted meat alongside a healthy swig of alcohol. Among all his confusion and concern, he can at least be thankful for having a peaceful meal after his last ended in some unwelcome bruising.

Ignis and Gladio sit down a few moments later. Gladio goes up behind Noctis and slaps him gently on the back, whispering something that Prompto can't hear. Whatever it was, Noctis looks at him with a bit of a glare.

"Eat too fast and you'll make yourself sick," Ignis says, deadpan.

Gladio chimes in too. "And after all the trouble Ig went through to make it for us," he teases. "You could at least stop and enjoy it some."

“You made this?” Prompto says, in between bites of meat.

Oddly enough, Ignis grows slightly bashful at the comment. “Most of it, yes,” Ignis says. “Though my handiwork is much better when we're not on the road.”

For his part, Prompto's never had the chance to try expensive meats, though he can only imagine food like this is worth more than all the gold pieces he's ever made in his life.

“Still pretty good if you ask me,” Prompto says. “It’s the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

Ignis hums in acknowledgment. “And what about you? Are you an avid cook?”

“Well, not really,” Prompto says. “But growing up like I did, you learn how to make do.”

"Oh?"

Prompto tenses up. "Well, parents weren't home often. Out for merchant affairs and all that," he says. "So I just had to pick up the slack and cook whatever I could while they were gone."

Maybe it's just in his head, but he feels Ignis grow a bit sullen at that remark. Sure, Prompto doesn't consider himself the smartest, but he isn't a fool when it comes to reading people. And Ignis, his face falls somewhere between pity and recognition.

When you grow up with a destiny tied to the Crownsguard, Prompto doesn't doubt there's lots to lose.

Ignis leans back and stretches his arms and begins to unfasten his armor. First, the breastplate and his shoulder pieces clank to the ground. Underneath, he has a fancy, loose shirt that’s unbuttoned just enough so that Prompto sees his collarbone and a bit of his chest. More than just the one’s on his face, it seems he’s been hiding other scars.

Prompto offers him the flask and Ignis accepts, again with a hint of a smile gracing his face.

As they begin to clear away the food wares, Prompto watches the other three setting up what bare constitutes as a campsite for the night. Noctis withdraws a roughed-up blanket, wrapping it around himself and dragging his knees up to his chest without a word. Gladio, on the other hand, seems unbothered by the slight nighttime breeze and rests his back against a sturdy rock while adjusting his leather armor.

Prompto sits down again next to Ignis, who seems preoccupied with a small, leatherbound diary of his. He writes idly, half paying attention to his words but much more acutely focused on scanning the area around them. With all the daemons cowering away, there's nothing more left than the four of them and the broken infrastructure of a time long gone.

"Say Ignis," Prompto starts, growing a little hesitant as Ignis's head perks up to meet his gaze. "And tell me to back off if I'm being out of line but, how long have you three been exiled from Insomnia anyways?"

Ignis looks on edge, rightfully so. "Could be weeks, could be months," he says. "But time here is unlike that of the Material Plane. So there's no knowing for certain."

Prompto figured as much, but it was worth asking anyways.

Anyone could feel the distortion of time and space around them. Some unplaceable feeling of unease. Even during the night at the bar, the presence of daemons never felt this haunting. Without really thinking, Prompto looks back to the barren road. He wants to see the skyline of Insomnia in the distance, maybe undamaged if he’s lucky enough, though he isn’t surprised when he doesn’t.  Just that malignant aura of daemons. All around him, extending off into infinity.

“Anyways, tonight will be our first proper sleep for the next little while,” Ignis says. “So I suggest you enjoy it.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” he says. Ignis probably doesn’t believe him, and more than anything else he’s just trying to convince himself.

He looks back, one last time, to the open road. When home is destroyed, what becomes of those who’ve known nothing else their whole life?

Prompto had stood in drunken silence as him home crumbled to the ground. He runs, that’s all he knows how to do. He at least feels better knowing that the Prince and his retinue had to run too? And running, in the end, is what’s kept them alive so far.

And for the men that only know how to run, come hell or high water, they’ll just have to build their home on whatever dirt they sleep on.


End file.
